My Reading Confessions

It is well established I love words. In person, I am a talker. And in the written form- well, I guess this blog would be Exhibit A. And, of course, The Roaring Redwoods (Amazon).

So there you go. I love words.

I liked writing from an early age, but- like most writers- reading was my first great love.

But I am not a perfect reader. Here are my sins as a reader:

–I haven’t read every great classic. And some I have read, I couldn’t finish. I tried but oy-vey, if my head is hurting by page 5, I am not doing it. The Man in the Iron Mask was one of those.  And I have read others that I so disliked I gave up. The Catcher and the Rye was one. That guy is so annoying. The appeal mystifies. I have zero interest in Lolita.

There were also the books I put off reading and then loved. Jane Eyre. I only read it because Katherine Hyde told me too. Thank goodness for friends. I love that book. The Great Gatsby was one I only read this year.

I don’t enjoy reading Shakespeare, but I do enjoy seeing the plays done well. My ear adjusts in about 15-20 minutes and his genius comes through.

–And it’s not all classics. I like contemporaries too: JoJo Moynes, Jennifer Weiner, Leif Enger (Leif, please tell me you’re writing a new book!).

–But I do not read as voraciously as some. I tend to be sporadic with days passing of virtually no reading and then I’ll have several books going at once.  I also read a lot of non fiction. Anne Lamott, Maya Angelou and lots more that start as research but then I forget to take notes and just read. It took me a long time to read the tome on Ben Franklin, but I really liked it.

–I also read less impressive works. I just started reading Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale. I liked Louis L’amore for a long time. And my Freshman year of high school could be known as the Harlequin Year. I devoured those books like potato chips.

My other confession is I have not read all my writer friends’ books. I wish I could, but I now know too many writers and I just can not do it. I am happy for them and often buy them, but I don’t always read them. Sorry.

–I don’t judge non readers. I am somewhat mystified. I mean, what do you DO if you don’t read? But when people tell me, apologetically, “I don’t really read.”  It’s okay. It’s allowed. I don’t like football. We all have our flaws differences.

I figure they feel the same way I feel when some writer names authors I have never even heard of or tell me how they love Dumas (the Iron Mask guy).  Really? I’m sure my eyes kind of cloud over and–if I’m taking a break from Botox– my brow knits up.

–I do judge other writers. I am at times impressed, intimidated, proud, embarrassed (on their behalf), and dismissive.  It’s not pretty, but it’s true.

Typically, the confessor is told “Go, and sin no more.”

But with my reading confessions? Well, “if lovin’ (books) is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right.”